Gospel Story Finder

After serving for a time in Salzburg, I was transferred to Zürich, Switzerland. While I was there, Brother Julius Billeter, a member of the Church, approached me. He was a professional genealogist, and he told me he had seen quite a few Wirthlin names in his work. He offered to research my family lines. I wrote home, and my father thought it was a wonderful opportunity, so we hired him to begin.
A year later he handed me a book. It was 36 centimeters long, 46 centimeters wide, and weighed 6.2 kilograms. It was filled with nearly 6,000 names of my ancestors. It was a priceless volume that I treasured. Just before my missionary release, I packed the precious book in a steamer trunk along with some of my other possessions and shipped it home. I prayed that it would arrive safely and that the precious family history would not be lost.
I arrived home before the trunk. Weeks passed. Still no trunk. I began to worry that the irreplaceable book had been lost. Six months after I had arrived in Salt Lake City, I received a call from the Union Pacific depot. A trunk had arrived for me. I rushed down to retrieve it, but when I saw it, my heart sank. The lock on the trunk had been broken.
I pried up the lid, and when I looked inside, my heart fell further. Everything had been soaked with seawater. What is more, I could tell someone had rifled through my belongings. Some things were missing.
I gingerly removed the layers of clothing, searching for my precious book. When I reached it, my heart overflowed with joy. Not only was it there, but the papers were completely dry! I know the book was preserved through divine intervention.

On May 30 of last year, my friend Troy Russell pulled his pickup truck slowly out of his garage on his way to donate goods to the local Deseret Industries. He felt his back tire roll over a bump. Thinking some item had fallen off the truck, he got out only to find his precious nine-year-old son, Austen, lying face down on the pavement. The screams, the priesthood blessing, the paramedic crew, the hospital staff—they were, in this case, to no avail. Austen was gone.
Unable to sleep, unable to find peace, Troy was inconsolable. He said it was more than he could bear and that he simply could not go on. But into that agonizing breach came three redeeming forces.
First was the love and reassuring spirit of our Father in Heaven, a presence communicated through the Holy Ghost that comforted Troy, taught him, loved him, and whispered that God knows everything about losing a beautiful and perfect Son. Second was his wife, Deedra, who held Troy in her arms and loved him and reminded him that she too had lost that son and was determined not to lose a husband also. Third in this story is John Manning, home teacher extraordinaire.
I frankly don’t know on what schedule John and his junior companion made visits to the Russell home, or what message was given when they got there, or how they reported the experience. What I do know is that last spring Brother Manning reached down and picked Troy Russell up off the tragedy of that driveway just as if he were picking up little Austen himself. Like the home teacher or watchman or brother in the gospel he was supposed to be, John simply took over the priesthood care and keeping of Troy Russell. He started by saying, “Troy, Austen wants you back on your feet—including on the basketball court—so I will be here every morning at 5:15 a.m. Be ready because I don’t want to have to come in to get you up—and I know Deedra doesn’t want me to do that either.”
“I didn’t want to go,” Troy told me later, “because I had always taken Austen with me on those mornings and I knew the memories would be too painful. But John insisted, so I went. From that first day back, we talked—or rather I talked and John listened. I talked the entire drive to the church and then the entire drive home. Sometimes I talked while we parked in the driveway and watched the sun rising over Las Vegas. At first it was difficult, but over time I realized I had found my strength in the form of a very slow 6-foot-2-inch (1.88 m) Church ball player, with an absolutely pathetic jump shot, who loved me and listened to me until the sun finally rose again on my life.”

“Hurry up, Jared, or we’ll be late for church,” Mother called from the bottom of the stairs. Rushing down the stairs and out the front door, Jared suddenly remembered that he needed his scriptures for Primary. Rather than taking the time to go back upstairs, he grabbed a set from the living room bookshelf.
On the way to church, he flipped through the Bible to find his favorite scripture about baptism. He wanted to share it in Primary opening exercises. He was surprised to find that the scripture he was looking for was already underlined in red and that there was a date written in the margin. “What happened on 2 July 1982?” he asked, reading the date.
“Let me think,” Mother said. “That was about the time Samuel turned eight. Why, I believe that was when he was baptized.”
Samuel was Jared’s big brother. He had recently married and moved to another state to go to college. Even though Samuel lived far away, Jared loved him very much and still felt close to him.
Jared turned to the first page of the Bible and saw Samuel’s full name printed in a child’s scrawl. Jared realized this must be the set of scriptures his brother had used when he was in Primary. And Samuel must have had the same favorite scripture about baptism that Jared had now. That made Jared feel even closer to Samuel. Turning back to Matthew 3:16–17 [Matt. 3:16–17], Jared carefully wrote his own baptism date in the margin next to Samuel’s.
Jared happily carried his brother’s scriptures to his Primary class. When the teacher asked the students to open their scriptures to Doctrine and Covenants 4 [D&C 4], he discovered there was a bookmark there. It was old and worn around the edges.
Jared turned it sideways so he could read the words written on it: “Every young man should serve a mission.” He thought about Samuel’s mission to Mexico and about how Samuel had begun saving money for a mission while he was still in Primary. Jared wondered if Samuel had started his mission fund when he got this bookmark.
After Primary, Jared carried Samuel’s scriptures to sacrament meeting. When one of the speakers read Doctrine and Covenants 131:2 [D&C 131:2], Jared was not surprised to open Samuel’s scriptures and see that the verse was already underlined. He also found a card there on which Samuel had written five reasons he wanted to get married in the temple. Jared thought about his brother’s recent temple marriage. Samuel must have started planning to get married in the temple when he was my age!
When Jared got home from church, he wrote a letter to Samuel:
Dear Samuel,
Thanks for letting me borrow your scriptures today. I hope you don’t mind that I wrote my baptism date in the margin next to yours. I’ve always wanted to be just like you when I grow up, and now I know how I can start. I want you to know I am going to save some money each week for my mission. And after my mission, I want to get married in the temple. Thanks for being a good example to me your whole life.
Love, Jared

After ten wonderful days in Honolulu, we set sail on the last leg of our long voyage. It was spent preparing for war. A former soldier trained the men for battle.
While we sailed, fifty to sixty men drilled for combat. They marched around the deck and practiced loading and aiming their guns. My friends and I had make-believe battles with my lead soldiers. The women kept busy stitching bolts of blue denim into uniforms for the troops.
On Friday, July 31, 1846, one month after leaving the Sandwich Islands—and nearly six months after leaving New York—we finally approached the California coast. Men, women, and children crowded the deck, eager to see where we would land at last. I tried to get a glimpse of land myself, but dense fog hung like a heavy, dark curtain in front of all of us.
The rocky shores of the Golden Gate strait were almost invisible when Captain Richardson carefully guided the Brooklyn through the narrow passage that opens into San Francisco Bay.
As eager as we were to land, we were even more anxious as to what awaited us. Would we find enemy ships in the harbor? Or Mexican soldiers on the shore? Did hidden spies watch as the Brooklyn moved slowly ahead?
Now and then the fog lifted over the bay and we could see the shore. There were no trees at all; the ground was the color of dry grass. Pelicans glided just above the surface of the water. They looked too heavy to fly any higher. Other birds, some dark, some white, soared and swooped over the waves. Occasionally we spotted bumps that looked like islands.
A shadowy shape gradually appeared in the distance. Was it a ship? Friend or foe? A wisp of something fluttered. Was it just a ribbon of fog streaking in the breeze, or was it a Mexican flag? I held my breath as we drew closer and saw a ship anchored in the harbor. The banner flapping in the wind was covered with stars and stripes! The American flag! Yerba Buena had already been captured for the United States. I couldn’t wait to go ashore, to have room to run and romp, to have a private place to think—and to eat a family meal cooked by Mama.
I studied the landing place. After the breathtaking beauty of the Juan Fernández and the Sandwich islands, Yerba Buena was downright ugly! There was nothing green at all. Skeletons of slaughtered cattle covered the sandy beach.
Droghers (clumsy barges) waited in the bay to carry their cargo of tallow and hides to the east coast. A few tired donkeys, loaded with bundles of wood, trudged along with their heads down. Some lazy loungers sprawled on the shore.
I also saw a few scrubby, gray oaks. Beyond them, a series of sand hills rose one behind the other. Several old shanties all leaned in the same direction.
While I stood on the deck, cannons from the battery boomed a salute, and the greeting was returned by the Brooklyn. A rowboat with uniformed officers from the Portsmouth, a United States military ship, approached us, and the men came aboard. One of them announced, “Ladies and gentleman, I have the honor to inform you that you are in the United States of America.”
The passengers aboard the Brooklyn gave three hearty cheers. Our long voyage was over at last.

Many things have been said about missionaries and missionary work. That has been the first love of my life, and I have been reminded of several things that happened sixty-eight years ago when I went to England. One I should like to relate.
I had gone to a certain house several times and had been rejected and warned not to come back again, but I was prompted to go again and again. And then as I was attempting to walk past that house, I was prompted to go in and try again to make contact. I used the big brass knocker on the English door without any response. I could see a lady in the front room knitting, and I made considerable noise with that knocker. She did not come out, and I went around to the back door. There was no knocker on that door so I used my walking stick, and I knocked with considerable vigor; in fact, it echoed through all the house.
Very soon the lady came out, and her coming out reminded me of my early days on the farm when I teased a setting hen off the nest. (I see some of you have had farm experience.) You know that a setting hen when she is teased off the nest comes off with her feathers going in the wrong direction, with her beak in perpetual motion, and this woman reminded me of that.
I apologized and said, “I am sorry to have interrupted you and have insisted upon an interview, but, my dear sister, I have come over six thousand miles to bring you a message which the Lord wants you to have. He sent me here to give you that message. I am going back to Canada in a few days, and I must tell you what the Lord wants you to know.”
She said, “You mean the Lord sent a message to me!”
I said, “That is right; he did.”
I told her of the restoration of the gospel, the organization of the Church, and the message of the restoration. She was quite impressed by what I told her. And I said when I left, “I am sorry to have disturbed you, but I could not refuse to carry out the message and the mission that was given to me when I came here. When we meet again, and we will meet again, you are going to say, ‘Thank you for coming to my back door. Thank you for loving me enough to carry the message of the Lord to me. When you left I could hardly contain myself. I was worried, disturbed, and wondered what it was all about. I finally went to the mission home, got some literature, studied, and became a member of the Church with my family.’”
Ten years later I was in England again, this time as a soldier, and at the end of the meeting a lady came up with two grown daughters. She said, “I do thank God and thank you that you came to my door with that message many years ago. I and my daughters joined the Church and we are going to Utah in a short time, and we thank God that you had the courage, the fortitude, and the faith to come to me with that divine message and to leave it with me in the name of the Lord.”

“At the end of the 1980s, … life was good [for me and my family], and everything seemed to be as it should be—until one day an old friend came to visit us.
“At the conclusion of his visit, he made a comment and asked a question that unsettled my convictions. He said, ‘Carlos, everything seems to be going well for you, your family, your career, and your service in the Church, but—’ and then came the question, ‘if you continue to live as you are living, will the blessings promised in your patriarchal blessing be fulfilled?’
“I had never thought about my patriarchal blessing in this way. I read it from time to time but never with the intent of looking toward the blessings promised in the future and evaluating how I was living in the present.
“After his visit, I turned my attention to my patriarchal blessing, wondering, ‘If we continue to live as we are living, will the promised blessings be fulfilled?’ After some pondering, I had the feeling that some changes were necessary.”

The music screamed from the radio, jerking me from my peaceful sleep. “Turn the radio down, Eric!” I bellowed.
I cracked open my eyes and watched my brother dance insanely in front of his dresser. His good left hand was clenched around an imaginary microphone, and his partially crippled right hand flapped as he twisted to the music.
“Eric!” I yelled again, and he turned toward me, gave me his sheepish grin—and turned up the radio. I lunged after him, and he bolted out the bedroom door, laughing as he ran. His straw-colored blond hair flapped as he ran, exhibiting more energy than I could ever match. I shut the door and climbed back in bed.
My brother Eric is a unique individual. He was born seven weeks prematurely and has had health problems his entire life. Two strokes, as a baby and at the age of two, left his right side partially paralyzed and destroyed a third of his brain.
When he was ten, he began having seizures, so we took him to a neurologist. After reviewing his CAT scans, the doctor came into the room expecting to see a drooling, severely retarded child. Instead, he met my brother, the electronics wizard and family clown. The doctor thought someone had accidentally switched scans. That’s because he didn’t know the miracle, my brother.
Eric’s brain damage left him with problems. He had a limited attention span and lacked many of the “normal” behavioral inhibitions. It was not uncommon to see him walk along and suddenly burst into an absurd song and dance. Those who didn’t know him thought, “Who is that?” But those who did know him thought, “That’s Eric.”
Eric was born a year and a half after I was. Our older brother, a headstrong toddler, demanded a lot of attention. Eric’s health problems also required a lot of my parents’ attention. As a result, my parents couldn’t give me as much attention as they, or I, would have liked. For years I resented Eric. “He’s a mistake,” I thought. “I’m really the youngest.” I tormented him and punched him and tried to make him miserable. But Eric always smiled at me and never hit me back.
One night I did something that made Eric cry, and when I did I felt like the lowest and the worst. Eric was watching TV. We had been fighting over something, so I started making fun of his disability. I never had before. I must have felt malicious. I made my hand look like his right hand, curled up and spastic, and I limped around and talked gibberish while I drooled.
The thing I remember most, as Eric started crying, was that he looked down at his crippled hand and hugged it to his chest. At that moment I wished the floor would swallow me, and I think I tasted what hell might be like.
Our relationship changed after that incident. As we grew older I tormented him less, and when I did, he fought back. We basically ignored each other until our family moved to California one summer.
When school started, Eric and I were the only people we knew at school, and we had to rely on each other. Instead of eating lunch by myself, I met Eric and we sat on the stone steps together. As we dug through our brown bags and munched ham sandwiches, I was surprised at the growing number of people who waved at, talked to, and sat down beside Eric. His cheery grin, relaxed attitude, and silly jokes soon had us in the middle of a noisy group of friends. Others saw in Eric what I had kept myself from seeing, and they showed me his strength, his dedication, his strange but hilarious sense of humor, and his amazing ability to shrug off pain.
One lunchtime Eric was a couple of minutes late. He spotted our group and sprinted across the sloping lawn, gripping his brown sack in his good left hand. His backpack bumped against him, his shirttail billowed, and his shoelaces straggled behind him. His weak right ankle tangled with his charging left foot, and he went down in a heap. He tried to catch himself, but his right arm crumpled and he plowed the grass with his face.
A couple of guys and I jumped up and ran to him. By the time we reached him, he was sitting up in the middle of his spilled backpack and smashed lunch. Dirt and grass smeared his nose and forehead, and he had a bloody scrape on his chin. He grinned up at us and said, “I hate it when that happens!”
One of the guys asked him incredulously, “Did you do that on purpose?”
Another example of his determination was when he joined the swim team. I had swum the year before and lettered in water polo. Eric decided he’d like to take a crack at competitive sports. He never missed a practice, even though he never placed higher than last in any meet. Sometimes he ended up in the wrong lane because his left side was so much stronger than his right, and he often worked up such momentum that he crashed into the concrete pool sides. But by the end of the season, he had halved his personal best time for the 50-meter freestyle.
Eric has been an example to me, even when I wouldn’t admit it. He taught me how to be tolerant of other people’s differences, how to overcome and overlook weakness, and how to find strength. He taught me to use what I have and to never give up. He showed me the value of being myself and how to love without condition.

“Andy, don’t forget your umbrella.”

“Aw, Mom, it’s not going to rain,” Andy said. “I’ll look silly carrying an umbrella to school when the sun is shining.” But he took the umbrella and headed up the street.

“Why can’t this be the kind of umbrella that folds up small,” he grumbled as he neared the end of his block. “It’s too big to hide under my jacket!”

“Hi, Andy. Are you afraid it’s going to rain?” a group of fourth-graders greeted him as he entered the school playground.

“The weatherman said it would,” Andy defended himself.

“Oh, sure—but this kind of rain is called sunshine,” Kenny teased him with a big grin. The other children laughed.

At recess, the sky was still sunny, and Andy was glad when no one mentioned the umbrella. However, after lunch Kenny appeared on the playground with the umbrella in hand! He held it out to Andy. “I thought that you might want this,” he said. “There’s a cloud in the sky now!” Kenny broke out in a fit of laughter. Other classmates joined in.

Andy was angry, and he bit his lip to keep from saying anything.

But Kenny wouldn’t leave it alone. He jumped up onto the steps of the school building. “Come on, everybody—see the one and only Andy and his famous umbrella,” he shouted. “Step right up. The show’s about to begin!”

Andy felt his face turn red as a large group of children turned and stared at him. “What’s so famous about it?” they asked.

Suddenly Andy remembered what Mom always said: “Try to make the best of things. Don’t let anyone or anything get you down.”

OK, he told himself. I’ll go along with them! He stood up and made a sweeping bow toward his audience. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “This may look like a common, ordinary umbrella, but it happens to be very special. Watch—I’ll show you.”

Andy held the closed umbrella by the handle, and with head held high, he strutted around the center of the circle made by the children. “It’s a fancy walking cane,” he explained. “Only very important people use them.”

Then he held the handle close to his face and pointed the tip end toward the sky. “Now it’s a telescope,” he announced. “I see Jupiter and Mars and all the stars, even in the daylight.”

“On guard!” he yelled as he bent his knees in a fencer’s stance. With his other arm held high, he slashed through the air with his “sword.”

The children began to clap. “More! More!” they called out.

With big dramatic motions, Andy opened the umbrella and held it over his head. He stepped along carefully as he pretended to be a circus tightrope walker.

As he neared one of his classmates, he closed the umbrella quickly and poked the pointed end through a piece of paper on the ground. “You see,” he said, “it’s also a good trash picker-upper.”

His classmates were laughing with him now, not at him. “That’s great, Andy,” they said. “What else can you do with it?”

Andy grabbed the middle of the closed umbrella and began to whistle “Yankee Doodle” while he strutted around like a drum major waving a baton. When he stopped, he twirled it around and around in his hand.

Finally, he opened it and placed it handle up on the ground and said, “It’s a TV satellite dish!” Then he turned it over and crawled underneath it. “It makes a good tent or fort too.”

Just then the bell rang. The children filed back into the classroom.

About fifteen minutes before school ended, the rain began. The light sprinkling had turned into a heavy drizzle by the time Andy got outside. He opened his umbrella and smiled to himself. Mom was right, as usual, he thought.

He passed the cars that were lined up in front of the building. Up ahead Andy saw Kenny with his shoulders hunched forward and his head down. Knowing that Kenny’s mom was still working and would not be there to give him a ride home, Andy hurried to catch up with his classmate. “I forgot to show you the most important thing this umbrella can do,” he told Kenny.

Andy held the umbrella so that it covered both their heads. “It’s really good for keeping a friend from getting wet too.”

Kenny stood up straight and smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Andy,” he said.

Susan’s spring vacation seemed doomed to be boring. The first day, it rained, a drizzling, gray rain. The second day, Mother had a doctor’s appointment and errands to run, so Susan had to tend her younger brother, Larry, who had the chicken pox.
“I want to go outside and play,” Larry complained.
Susan sighed. “I wish you could, too, but Mom said no friends and no playing outdoors until you’re better.”
“When will Mom be home?” Larry asked.
“After lunch.”
Larry plopped onto the couch. “That’s three hours away!”
“Well, right now I’m going to practice the piano. After that, I’m going to finish my scripture project for Primary,” Susan told him.
“But I want you to play a game with me,” Larry said grumpily.
“Why don’t you play with your trains?” Susan suggested, going over to the piano. Suddenly she turned back. “Hey, I have a great idea! I’ll make a game for you and do my scripture project at the same time!”
Larry sat up. “What are you going to do?”
“That’s the best part,” Susan said mysteriously. “It’s going to be a secret. While I get everything ready, you go to your room and listen to the scripture tapes so you’ll get into a scripture-thinking mood.”
Susan’s Primary teacher, Sister Anderson, had asked the class to use the Bible for their Merrie Miss project, so Susan flipped to the Topical Guide in the back and turned page after page. She discovered lots of possibilities for her game.
Next, she found some index cards, wrote down the scripture references that sounded fun for her clues, then hid all but one of the cards around the house.
After that, she hurried to the kitchen and fixed a surprise before going to get her brother. “Everything’s ready,” she announced, leading Larry to the family room. Handing him a card and a Bible, she said, “The clues will lead you to a surprise, but you’ll need the Bible to get you there.”
Larry looked at the first card and saw:
Clue #1
Matthew 6:6 [Matt. 6:6]. He quickly looked up the reference and read:
“‘But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.’”
He looked up. “Does this mean I need to look in the closet?”
“Why don’t you go find out?”
They ran to the hall closet, and Larry opened the door. Taped to the vacuum cleaner was another card:
Clue #2
Genesis 37:3 [Gen. 37:3]. In his Bible, Larry read:
“‘Now Israel loved Joseph … and he made him a coat of many colours.’”
He grinned. “Coats!”
Larry looked up and saw the family’s winter coats hanging in the closet. He dug his hands deep into the pockets. It was in the pocket of his very own coat that he pulled out a third card:
Clue #3
Matthew 9:16 [Matt. 9:16]. “‘No man putteth a piece of new cloth unto an old garment,’” he read from the Bible.
Puzzled, he asked Susan, “You mean cloth like in a fabric store? How can we go there?”
“We can’t, of course, but there’s a place in our house that’s a lot like one,” she hinted.
Larry let out a whoop. “Mom’s sewing corner!” He scurried to Mom’s sewing corner in the family room. Underneath a box of fabric was another card:
Clue #4
John 14:16. After finding the scripture, Larry read:
“‘And I will pray the Father, and he shall give you another Comforter, that he may abide with you for ever.’”
Turning to the Bible Dictionary, he saw that Comforter referred to either the Holy Ghost or Jesus Christ. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Where do I look next?”
“I had to stretch the language a bit on that one,” Susan admitted. “What would you think of if Comforter wasn’t capitalized?”
“Oh, I know now—it must be the thick comforter quilt on Mom and Dad’s bed!”
In their parents’ bedroom, Larry pulled back the big comforter and discovered the next card underneath a pillow:
Clue #5
Matthew 10:9 [Matt. 10:9]. “‘Provide neither gold, nor silver, nor brass in your purses.’”
Larry stuck his hands on his hips. “But Mom took her purse with her, and I can’t get into it without her permission, anyway.”
“There’s still mine,” Susan said with a grin, “and you may open it.”
Larry raced to his sister’s room and found her purse right on the dresser. It was empty except for a card that read:
Clue #6
Isaiah 7:15 [Isa. 7:15]. “This one says,
“‘Butter and honey shall he eat, that he may know to refuse the evil, and choose the good.’”
“I know where to look for butter and honey!”
In the kitchen, he opened the pantry door. On a shelf sat a plate covered with thick slices of homemade bread spread with butter and honey. Underneath the plate was a card. It said:
Last Clue
Ecclesiastes 4:9 [Eccl. 4:9]. “Hey,” Larry cried, “This scripture is talking about us! Listen—
“‘Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour.’”
“You’re pretty smart,” Susan told him. Then she realized that tending her brother hadn’t been so bad after all. She got two glasses of cold milk from the refrigerator, and they sat down at the table.
Larry took a big bite of his bread. Honey dribbled down his chin, and he licked it off. “Let’s do this game for family home evening next week with Mom and Dad. It was a lot of fun.”
Susan smiled at her brother. “OK, we can work together on the clues.”

We will make many choices throughout our lives. Today I'd like to talk about three choices that can help us find the joy Heavenly Father wants for each of us.

The first choice is, choose to share the gospel.

Sharing the gospel will bring a sweet spirit into our lives. When we testify of the truth, our testimonies are strengthened. Sometimes we get discouraged because every experience doesn't end with what we see as success. Every missionary experience may not be successful as we see it, but each one will be worthwhile. All the Lord expects is that we do our part.

We should remember that those we work with are precious sons and daughters of our Eternal Father and deserve respect and understanding. People should never be considered a project. We should never abandon someone because they don't respond or accept our invitation.

When we try to encourage someone to come back or learn about the gospel and they respond, "No, thanks," often they are really saying, "Just give me a little more time. Don't stop loving me. I'm not ready yet. Don't give up on me."

I visited a 16- and 17-year-old Sunday School class one Sunday morning. When the teacher came into the classroom, he wrote on the chalkboard, "The Plane Truth." P-L-A-N-E. I thought to myself, "I wonder where he went to school? I hope it wasn't BYU-Idaho." I soon learned what this meant. Two young people came to the front of the class and sat in two chairs and then began to role-play sharing the gospel to someone sitting next to them on an airplane. They did a great job.

It made me think of a story I'd recently heard of a lady who was sharing the gospel with the person sitting next to her on a flight. The person she was talking to became very interested in knowing more, and the member of the Church said, "Oh, I wish I had a Book of Mormon to give you. I usually have one with me when I travel, but I forgot this time." Just then, someone in the seat behind her reached over and handed her a Book of Mormon. I'm not sure if it was a good member who had overheard the conversation trying to do their part or someone trying to get rid of a book they had just received.

These experiences inspired me to want to share the gospel the next time I was on an airplane.

A few weeks later, I flew to area council meetings, and I got my chance. On the way home I committed myself to share the gospel with the person sitting next to me on the plane. If those kids could do it, so could I. On the first flight, I sat next to a young man who had no interest in hearing about the Church. All he wanted to talk about was all of his girlfriends, his pickup truck, and how much beer he could drink. I was so discouraged I wanted to jump out of the plane.

On the second flight, I waited anxiously to meet my next flight companion. He was from Germany. He spoke English pretty well, and I talked to him about the Church. He said that he had never heard of the Church and changed the subject but was still friendly and wanted to talk. I asked where he was staying and offered him a ride to his hotel when we arrived in Idaho Falls. I asked him why he was going to Idaho. He explained that he was going to ride horses and herd cattle at a nearby ranch. He said he had received information telling him that he needed a hat. I said, "That's a good idea. It's hot there. You'll get a sunburn without one". "How about cowboy boots?" he asked. I thought to myself, "Please don't do this to me. It's Saturday night, and I'm sure you're going to want me to help you buy boots on Sunday." So I told him, "If you buy new boots and wear them for five days straight, you'll probably never walk again the rest of your life. But I have a pair of boots in my closet at home that are a little too small for me. They are in good shape, and you can have them if you want." I asked, "What size do you wear?" He told me some European size, and I said, "Oh, I'm sure they'll fit."

When we arrived at the hotel, he said "Oh, what about the boots? When can I get the boots?" I said, "I have church tomorrow, so after church I'll..." Then I thought to myself, "You big chicken! If those kids can do it, why can't you?" So I said, "Or, if you'd like, you can go to church with me, and I can give you the boots then." He said, "Okay." I was a little shocked and pleased, but having been a missionary, I knew he might not be there when I went to pick him up.

The next morning, when I went into the hotel lobby to meet him, he wasn't there. As I went outside to leave, he came running around the building and said, "I was looking for you." I could hardly believe it! He got in the car, and we headed for church. When we arrived, I introduced him to a few members of my ward. Everyone that spoke one word of German, had ever seen a German movie, or even eaten sauerkraut surrounded him. He felt so welcome. I had copied off some Church materials and talks in German for him the night before, mostly stuff by President Uchtdorf. He really seemed to enjoy his time there. When we got in the car to go back to the hotel, he thanked me for inviting him to church and said, "I go to church almost every Sunday in Germany, but I have never felt what I felt today." I had come so close to not letting one of Heavenly Father's children feel His Spirit. And to think that I almost missed this wonderful opportunity to share the gospel.

During World War II he had served in an infantry battalion in an area where constant combat covered the earth with blood, pain, and death. His squad was commanded by a sergeant who had earned the hatred of his men through extraordinary harshness. One terrible night a mortar shell exploded not far from the sergeant, critically wounding him. The commanding officer stopped a dilapidated truck that often passed by to pick up the wounded and dying and take them behind the lines to be cared for or buried.
The squad watched the fate of their dying leader from a distance. Not one went to help him. The officer asked for a volunteer to carry the man to the truck and accompany him behind the lines. No one volunteered.
Then, after something of a pause, Brother Thamas stepped forward. “Moved by compassion,” he told us, “I decided to carry the unfortunate fellow and go with him on his trip. I took care of him the best I could during his long and painful ride.
“I returned later in search of my squad. When I reached the front, I learned that fierce bombardment had wiped out a large number of men on the awful night of my departure. Not one man from my squad had survived apart from myself. And then I understood. I thanked God for having moved me to compassion. He saved my life and gave me a chance to hear the restored gospel.”

For Sister Jane Rio Garcia of Tarlac, the family tricycle symbolizes her faithfulness in keeping the sabbath day holy. Growing up, Jane, her siblings and their parents all piled up inside their humble vehicle to make it to sacrament meeting, where her father, who served as the bishop, taught them the importance of honoring the Lord’s day.
As Jane matured, her strong testimony helped her make firm moral choices, such as declining to join weekend school marathons, which miraculously did not affect her grades. More recently, during the pandemic, Jane also found quality time to deepen her spirituality every Sunday. “My parents really helped us children to appreciate the Lord’s day,“ she proudly affirms, “and their teachings are now our guide.”

When I was almost 16 years old, my inspired bishop asked me to teach our youth Sunday School class about gaining a testimony of the gospel through prayer. As I grew up, I had taken the time to study the Book of Mormon and always felt that the Church was true. I had always believed in the Savior Jesus Christ, but I had never taken to heart Moroni’s promise, found in Moroni 10:4–5, and prayed about the truthfulness of the gospel. I remember feeling that if I was going to teach about how to gain a testimony through prayer, I should pray for a testimony myself. My soul hungered—perhaps in a different way from Enos, but I still felt a spiritual need.
As I prepared the lesson, I knelt and prayed with all my heart. When I asked the Lord if the gospel is true, there came to my heart a very sweet feeling—that still, small voice confirming to me that it was true and that I should continue doing what I was doing.
The feeling was so strong that I could never disregard that answer and say I didn’t know. I felt so happy! The following Sunday, I stood in front of my classmates and testified that Heavenly Father would answer their prayers if they had faith.
Elder Soares as a young man
This testimony has stayed with me. It has helped me make decisions, especially in challenging moments. It has allowed me to testify to people, with conviction, that they can get answers from Heavenly Father if they pray in faith. This has been true for me as a teacher in that youth Sunday School class, as a missionary, and even today as an Apostle.

Many years ago, Brigham Young told of an early missionary in the Church who was asked to share his testimony with a large group of people. According to President Young, this particular elder “never had been able to say that he knew Joseph [Smith] was a Prophet.” He would have preferred to just say a prayer and leave, but the circumstances made that impossible. So he started to speak, and “as soon as he got ‘Joseph’ out, ‘is a Prophet,’ was … next; and from that, his tongue was loosened, and he continued talking until near sun-down.”
President Young used this experience to teach that “the Lord pours out His Spirit upon a man, when he testifies that [which] the Lord gives him to testify of” (Millennial Star, supplement, 1853, 30).

Some years ago near the end of a plane trip that I was on on an assignment, the stewardess came along asking what we wanted as a refreshment, as a drink. And I told her that I would take a 7-Up or some lemon drink.
As she brought it to me and handed me the drink, she noticed my tie pin. And on my tie pin, which I have here in my hand—we were using these in the Scottish Mission years ago—there was the crest of the royal family of England. But in the center of that crest we had emblazed the London Temple. And so on this tie pin was the temple with that crest around it. As the stewardess handed me the 7-Up, she said, “My, that’s an unusual tie pin. What is on it?”
And I said, “That’s a temple.”
And this young lady said, “A temple? A temple of what?”
And I said, “A temple of the Lord.”
And she said, “A what?”
And I said, “It’s a temple of the Lord.”
And I could see some interest in her, and she said, ”What church do you belong to?”
I told her of our Church, and then I said to her, because I could see there was some interest, “If you will give me your name and address, I will have some young men come by and call on you, and they will tell you about this temple and about temples.”
She looked at me rather strangely and walked away. Then in a few moments she came back and handed me a little slip of paper with her name, Penny Harryman, with a Los Angeles address.
I called the mission president, and I told him, as we always do, “Send two of your best. I want you to go out and visit with this young lady,” because I had said to her, “I’ll have some young men come and see you, and if you do what they will ask you to do and listen to them, I promise you that you can have the greatest blessings that could come into your life.”
A little over a year later, a telephone call came into my office one day, and a girl’s voice said, “My name is Penny Harryman. Do you remember me?”
And I said, “Of course I do.”
She said, “Could you arrange to marry my fiancé and me in the Salt Lake Temple if we could arrange the time?”
I said, “Of course I would.”
And while I was sealing this young lady to this young man that she had met during that course of events, I found that her mother was walking around Temple Square in Salt Lake, wondering what we were doing to her daughter in the temple because she wasn’t permitted to be there.

I was taught by great elders. When I heard the message of the Restoration, I had an even greater confirmation that I should be baptized. But I wanted to know for myself the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. The elders marked Moroni 10:3–5 in my Book of Mormon and invited me to pray and ask God if it is true.

The next evening I remembered that I had not yet read the Book of Mormon. As I began to read, I felt a very strong spirit. I prayed, and before I was finished, I knew that the Book of Mormon is true. I am grateful to God for having answered my prayer. I was baptized in July 2006.

In the April 2003 general conference, President Russell M. Nelson shared a story that occurred while he was still working as a heart surgeon. Please note that he was not a member of the Twelve Apostles at the time of this incident; he was simply a faithful member of the Church who had made and kept his covenants. The event happened in the pioneering days of heart surgery, and a man came with hope that Dr. Nelson could repair his heart and save his live.

President Nelson said, "Extensive evaluation revealed that he had two faulty valves. While one could be helped surgically, the other could not. Thus, an operation was not advised. He received this news with deep disappointment."

This faithful man then said, "Dr. Nelson, I have prayed for help and have been directed to you. The Lord will not reveal to me how to repair that second valve, but He can reveal it to you. Your mind is so prepared. If you will operate upon me, the Lord will make it known to you what to do. Please perform the operation that I need, and pray for the help that you need."

Dr. Nelson finally agreed to do the operation and said:

"In preparing for that fateful day, I prayed over and over again, but still did not know what to do for his leaking tricuspid valve. Even as the operation commenced, my assistant asked, 'What are you going to do for that?

"I said, 'I do not know.'"

President Nelson continued:

"We began the operation. After relieving the obstruction of the first valve, we exposed the second valve. We found it to be intact but so badly dilated that it could no longer function as it should. While examining this valve, a message was distinctly impressed upon my mind: Reduce the circumference of the ring. I announced that message to my assistant. 'The valve tissue will be sufficient if we can effectively reduce the ring toward its normal size.'

"But how? We could not apply a belt as one would use to tighten the waist of oversized trousers. We could not squeeze with a strap as one would cinch a saddle on a horse. Then a picture came vividly to my mind, showing how stitches could be placed--to make a pleat here and a tuck there--to accomplish the desired objective. I still remember that mental image--complete with dotted lines where sutures should be placed. The repair was completed as diagrammed in my mind. We tested the valve and found the leak to be reduced remarkably. My assistant said, 'It's a miracle.'

"I responded, 'It's an answer to prayer.'"[12]

One morning long ago, Kookaburra sat high and solemn in his gum tree, looking down on the rain-washed world. He had heard the strong night wind uproot a tall tree near the pond, so he flew down to take a look. Lying on the earth where the tree roots had been were two tiny eggs. The falling tree must have disturbed a bird’s nest. But whose?
Kookaburra thought he knew almost everything there was to know about anything. But he didn’t know who had laid the eggs. Mrs. Kookaburra agreed to sit on them to keep them warm while Kookaburra tried to find their owner.
First he flew to his friends in the trees. He asked Cockatoo about the eggs, and Cockatoo asked Parakeet. Then Parakeet asked Parrot. But none of them knew whose eggs Kookaburra had found.
Next Kookaburra searched out his friends who lived on the ground. He found Bowerbird decorating his nest with flowers, berries, and pieces of brightly colored material. Bowerbird came proudly down his mossy path and greeted his guest. Unfortunately, Bowerbird had never seen any eggs like Kookaburra described. So Kookaburra said, “Bowerbird, Bowerbird, come with me. Come see the eggs by the fallen tree.” And off they went.
Then Kookaburra and Bowerbird went to see Lyrebird, who was easy to find because he was putting on a show that very minute. What a sight he was! He danced around on the little stage of earth and vegetable matter that he had built, mimicking the song of one bird after another. His very long tail feathers fanned out in the sun in the shape of a lyre.
Kookaburra and Bowerbird politely waited until his act was over before asking about the eggs. But Lyrebird didn’t know whose eggs they were. So Kookaburra said, “Lyrebird, Lyrebird, come with me. Come see the eggs by the fallen tree.” And off they went.
Beyond the trees, Kookaburra and Bowerbird and Lyrebird saw the Mallee Fowls in a clearing. Their eggs had been laid, and Mallee was putting a big pile of sand over the vegetation that covered the eggs. As the visitors watched, he next scratched away earth in the center of the pile to make a little hole to let in warm air. His beak worked just like a thermometer, testing to see that the eggs were not too warm or too cool.
Kookaburra said, “Mallee Fowls, Mallee Fowls, come with me. Come see the eggs by the fallen tree.”
Mrs. Mallee explained that her mate could not leave their eggs, but she would go with them herself. So Kookaburra, Bowerbird, Lyrebird and Mrs. Mallee returned to the edge of the pond.
Mrs. Kookaburra was still there, sitting on the eggs. Kookaburra thought that if they would all hide behind the gum tree and wait very quietly, the mother bird might still return. So they did.
They had sat still for only a few minutes, although it seemed like a very, very long time, when they saw the strangest sight! Up the bank toddled a furry creature. It had a bill like a duck, but it had no wings. Its long tail was wide and flat like a beaver’s tail. And its legs were very short with webbed feet.
Kookaburra recognized Mrs. Platypus. She was returning to the place where she had dug her home under the ground. Mrs. Platypus had thought her eggs had been lost during the storm, and when she saw the two little eggs, she waddled from side to side and clattered her giant bill. Then she cuddled up to her eggs.
Because Mrs. Kookaburra had kept the eggs warm, they were all ready to hatch. One began to crack open, then the other. Out popped two tiny platypuses. They crawled right up onto their mother’s tummy and held on with all their might.
Kookaburra and his friends watched every move. Mrs. Platypus scooted right back down into the pond and flipped over onto her back in the water. She gave one big splat with her tail and floated away just like a big log, with her babies riding on top of her.
Mrs. Kookaburra said, “Well, I never!”
Mrs. Mallee ruffled her feathers and said, “Unbelievable!”
Lyrebird fanned out his tail, danced around in a circle, and started to sing.
Bowerbird picked up a feather to take to his bower, and Kookaburra blinked his eyes. He shook his head and stared in amazement. The eggs had not belonged to any bird at all, but to Mrs. Platypus. The joke was on him!
Kookaburra’s solemn look vanished, and he began to laugh. He flew back to his high branch in the gum tree and laughed louder and louder until his laugh rang out clear across the Land Down Under, where his laugh can be heard to this very day.

Last summer I visited Elder Orin Voorheis at his parents’ home in Pleasant Grove, Utah. He is a big, handsome, splendid young man who served in the Argentina Buenos Aires South Mission. One night, about 11 months into his mission, some armed robbers accosted Elder Voorheis and his companion. In a senseless act of violence, one of them shot Elder Voorheis in the head. For days he hovered between life and death, unable to speak, hear, move, or even breathe on his own. Through the faith and prayers of a host of people over a long period of time, he eventually was taken off life support and brought back to the United States.

After months of extensive hospitalization and therapy, Elder Voorheis became stronger, but he was still paralyzed and unable to speak. Progress was slow. His parents decided that they should bring their son home and care for him in the loving atmosphere of their own family. However, their modest home lacked the space or equipment to give the needed therapy. Many kind neighbors, friends, and benefactors pitched in to build an addition to the home and provide physical therapy equipment.

Elder Voorheis is still almost completely paralyzed and unable to speak, but he has a wonderful spirit and can respond to questions with hand movements. He still wears his missionary badge. His parents do not ask, “Why did this happen to our noble son, who was serving at the call of the Master?” No one has a certain answer except perhaps in circumstances where higher purposes are served. We must walk in faith. We recall the Savior’s reply to the question, “Who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?” The Savior answered that no one was at fault but that the works of God might be manifest in him. Rather than harbor bitterness, the members of the Voorheis family bow their heads and say to the Lord: “Thy will be done. We have been grateful for him every day of his life, and with the help of others we will willingly bear the burden of caring for him.”

My purpose in visiting Elder Voorheis was to join his father, his bishop, his home teacher, and others in giving him a blessing of hope. Some may ask, “Is there hope for Elder Voorheis in this life?” I believe there is great hope for everyone! Sometimes we ask God for miracles, and they often happen but not always in the manner we expect. The quality of Elder Voorheis’s life is less than desirable, but the influence of his life on others is incalculable and everlasting both here and in Argentina. Indeed, after his accident the Kilómetro 26 Branch, where he served in Argentina, grew rapidly and quickly qualified for the construction of a chapel.

—A key turned, a hatchback rose, and a light went on in the back of a car. Young Women from the Woodstock Ward, Marietta Georgia East Stake, were tromping through the rain to fill the car with the Thanksgiving feast they’d prepared for a mother and four children who recently left a battered women’s center and moved into a small apartment of their own.
“We were going to deliver it on Thanksgiving,” said Brenda Bain. “But we found out they could be hungry right now, so we didn’t want to wait. We’re going to continue helping them through the rest of the year,” she added, as she pushed the car hatch down.